


maybe sprout wings

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Surgery, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Phalloplasty, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 08:31:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8526079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: I clawed my way to the living room window / Stood there in the cold / The last bits of my dream like figures in the distance / Hard to hold / I thought of old friends, the one's who'd gone missing / Said all their names three times / Phantoms in the early dark / Canaries in the mines.





	

On the day of Jack Morrison’s funeral, there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Beautiful clear skies. No wind. Hot enough to make the flowers droop. And there were so many flowers when they lowered Jack into the ground.

They held Ana’s funeral in the morning, while the sky was still grey and the world was a cold thing on its last legs, waiting for the sun to make it new and bright again. He held Fareeha’s little hand in his big fist and cried, huge heaving sobs that shook his body so hard that he almost couldn’t breathe.

 

Like every other day before it, the sun comes up, without Jack or Ana to see it.

 

His eyes are heavy. Muscle spasms in the night kept waking him up. He watches the light inch up the horizon until it spills through his window, and then he passes out for another couple hours. Even though he’s finally home, he’s not supposed to leave the bed for another ten days; his mouth still tastes like hospital food.

Brigitte makes him eggs. She makes him think of little Fareeha - not so little these days, of course. He misses making pancakes for Fareeha. He misses the warmth of Ana's body next to his. Brigitte notices how his hand shakes as he lifts the fork to his mouth and she takes his wrist in her small, rough hands.

"You smell awful," she says casually, guiding the fork for him.

He laughs. "Wet wipes can only do so much when I'm not allowed to get up to shower. Makes me feel so old."

"You _are_ old. Nothing wrong with that. Have some toast."

He'd had top surgery years before he and Brigitte met. Ana had been there for him when he needed someone to change the sheets for him, feed him, laugh with him while he recovered. And he had been there for her when Fareeha was born, and diapers needed changing.

He never thought his life would turn out this way. He never thought - every so often he has to reach under the blankets and grab it. The weight of it against his thigh is familiar, but unlike a packer, it’s warm. Warm and real, a part of him, at last. They would be proud.

Because he is new and bright again.

**Author's Note:**

> never was interested in reinhardt's character until i had a dream about him and widowmaker. i cant remember what happened except this part where they talked about how small her hands were compared to his. for some reason the dream made me really sad. i woke up needing to write something, so here's this. thanks brain


End file.
